


Bought for a song

by jspringsteen



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 09:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17404751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jspringsteen/pseuds/jspringsteen
Summary: Slight AU based on the real history of Queen. Freddie goes shopping at Roger's Kensington Market stall to see if they'll hire him as their singer, and gets more than he bargained for.





	Bought for a song

When he enters the building, he inhales, with relish, the unique cocktail of pot, mildew, patchouli, mothballs, and a whiff of leather that signals he’s stepped through the looking glass. Away from dull, daily life, and into a Shangri-La of clothes, records, and accoutrements from every thinkable era (including the Stone Age, if you count that one stall with its questionable-looking fur coats). Away from Farrokh Bulsara, suitcase shifter at Heathrow, and into anonymity, free to wander and rummage through the treasures from all corners of the world that the waves of time have thrown up here. Like a mudlark on the riverbeds of the Thames, Freddie likes to while away his precious days off strolling around here, finding, it seems to him, not just the most fantastic leather belts from Morocco, scarves from India and bell bottoms from Paddington, but something else, too. Little bits and pieces that he gathers and hoards, inside, where no one can see them, but which he’ll need one day, he knows, to build something new – _someone_ new.

Today, though, he is here on a mission. 

He went out last night to see Smile play at the Rose and Crown – a band he’s been following for a while now, who have quickly racked up a reputation as the heaviest band on London’s pub circuit. He’d missed the bus, as well, and had hoped to be able to sneak in and stand at the back unnoticed, but when he walked in the lights were on, the room was suspiciously empty, and sitting at the bar were the guitarist and the drummer, their faces drooping. Freddie felt their eyes on him as he walked up to the bar and ordered a pint in a low voice. As he leaned his elbows on the bar, he looked around awkwardly at the few patrons scattered around the room. With a pint glass securely in hand, he’d approached the two, and asked if they weren’t playing tonight.

Without answering, the drummer slammed down his glass and stomped off to the bathroom. The guitarist smiled apologetically and said, “No. As it happens, erm… our singer’s just quit.”

“Just now? Really?” Freddie’s heart started to pound.

The guitarist nodded. “Yep. Gave us ten minutes’ notice before the gig.” He looked Freddie up and down. “Are you here for us, then? You’re pretty late.”

“I came up from Feltham,” Freddie said, defensively. He took advantage of his next long sip to plan his next move, and when he put the glass down he asked, casually, “And now what?”

The guitarist shrugged. “Dunno. We’ll have to think it over. Roger says he wants to pack it in altogether, but, between you and me…” He winked, and whispered, “He likes the attention too much.”

Freddie smiled. “And what do you think?”

The guitarist peered pensively into his glass. “I don’t know. I’ve still got a degree to finish. I think my dad’d rather I gave it all up.” He bit his lip and shrugged again. Freddie, feeling his heart sink, clutched his glass.

“You can’t,” he blurted out, and when the guitarist looked at him in surprise, he added, “You’re the best band out there.” _And you’re the only ones whose sound matches the one in my head._  

“Thanks, mate.” The guitarist extended his hand. “I’m Brian, by the way.”

The bathroom door opened and Roger emerged, zipping up his tight black trousers and walking back towards them, causing the heads of the few women in the pub to swivel in sync. Freddie’s eye was caught by his red and blue paisley blouse, which seemed to flow down over his torso from his broad shoulders.

“I dig your look,” he told him, unconsciously picking at the hole in his jeans his mother mended for him a few weeks ago.

“Ta,” Roger replied, and hoisted himself back on his stool, keeping his eyes on Freddie. “It’s from Kenny Market. I run a stall there.”

“Is it? I love that place,” Freddie said, smiling bravely to cover up the pang of insecurity he felt. _They’ll never hire me if I dress like this,_ he thought. Roger was still looking at him attentively, and Freddie pulled his upper lip down over his teeth, where he felt Roger’s gaze was lingering. Now, he knew, came the inevitable question where he was from, _originally like,_ which everyone but himself seemed to find very important.

“What’s your name?” Roger asked.

“Zanzi—Freddie,” Freddie replied. He could have bit his tongue. Raising an eyebrow, Roger extended his hand. 

“I’m Roger.”

They shook hands.

“Well,” Brian said, standing up and clapping Roger on the shoulder, “I reckon we should pack up the gear. Bye, Freddie.” To Freddie’s dismay, Roger nodded and hopped off his bar stool.

“See you around,” he said to Freddie, giving him another once-over before turning around.

“Yeah,” Freddie said, watching Roger walk towards the small stage and began unscrewing his cymbals. _I’ll ask them now,_ he thought. _“Excuse me! Do you mind if I sing you something, here, in the middle of the bar?”_ But the moment, he knew, had passed.

He finished his lager and stood up from his bar stool, feeling the last bit of his courage, which had slowly melted away as their conversation progressed, trickle down into his shoes. His feet felt leaden as he walked out and back to the bus stop, and he mentally scolded himself all the way home, vowing to go see Roger at Kensington Market as soon as possible.

Now, dressed in his least faded pair of red corduroys and a striped shirt he’s borrowed from Kash, Freddie begins his quest eagerly, but forces himself to walk slowly; Roger can’t think he has been racing around trying to find him. He strolls past the stalls on the ground floor, admiring a pair of boots here, thumbing a few records there, feigning interest in leather- and lace-covered mannequins while he tries to peek inside to see who’s minding each stall. With no luck on the ground floor, he moves on to the second; and when he has completed three out of four sides of the square balcony, he begins to feel a little uneasy. What if Roger’s not here today? He won’t have another day off for two weeks, and by then, Smile will certainly have found another singer – or split up. _You should’ve asked them yesterday,_ he thinks. _Bloody coward!_

His eye is caught by a flash of blonde hair to his right, a little further along, and he strolls over there as quickly and as casually as he can, but slows down when he sees a woman turn around and smile at him. Quickly, he pretends to examine one of the leather jackets hanging outside, fingering a sleeve.

She comes up to him. “Can I help you find anything?”

“I-I’m looking for a suede jacket, actually,” he tells her, not wanting to seem rude.

“Oh! You should pop over there, then, to Ruskin. They sell that sort of thing.” She points him a few stalls on and across. Freddie thanks her and moves on, relieved.

Suddenly, a gust of air from an air vent blows something in his face. Freddie lets out a startled yelp and scrabbles at his face, pulling it off. It’s a scarf: blue and smooth as silk, it passes through his fingers like water. He glances around, feeling relieved when nobody pokes out their head or turns around to see what’s going on.

“I’d scream too if I saw a bargain like that,” says a voice behind him. “Real silk, and only a tenner.” His stomach turning, Freddie turns around to see Roger standing behind him. Today he’s wearing an open black shirt that defies the definition of a button-down and displays his smooth chest, high-waisted white bell bottoms, and his custom cocky grin. His face lights up with recognition.

“Hey! It’s Freddie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, fancy seeing you here—I was just in the neighbourhood,” Freddie babbles, passing the scarf through his fingers again and again, to make it seem as if he picked it up on purpose. Roger cocks his head, still grinning, and Freddie has to force himself not to drop his gaze. _Come on, Bulsara,_ he tells himself. _Time to show him what you’re made of._

“Come on in and have a look.” Roger goes inside and Freddie follows him. His mouth drops open as he looks around at the scarves dripping from the ceiling like glittering stalactites, the bulging racks of clothing lining the walls, the table lamps scattered across the floor draped with fabric that make it look like a circus artiste’s dressing room.

“I think this is what the inside of my head looks like,” he says, stroking a coat covered in large black feathers.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles. He tries to focus on the feeling of the velvet, suede and sequins passing under his fingertips, imagining how he would look in this, and that.

“Anything you fancy?” Roger asks him. He hovers a few feet away from Freddie, arms akimbo.

“D’you have any more of those paisley shirts? Like the one you wore yesterday?”

“Sure.” Roger turns and walks towards the back of the stall.  

“Here. This one should fit you.” He pulls a shirt from the rack that’s covered in a subdued purple-and-gold pattern. Freddie reaches out to rub the material between two fingers. He holds the shirt in from of him, and shoots Roger a questioning look. Roger’s gaze sweeps over him, slowly, then he nods with a smile.

“Good choice, I think. Go on, then.” He points to the curtain that evidently functions as a dressing room. Freddie shuffles behind it and pulls it to, then takes off his T-shirt and pulls on the paisley shirt. The smooth fabric caresses his shoulders as he buttons it up, and as he looks at himself in the cracked mirror he finds he cannot look away. The intricate print suits his long, dark hair, and the gold brings a warm glow to his eyes he has never seen before.

The curtain opens, and Roger sticks his head in. “What d’you think?”

“I love it. How much is it?”

“Twenty-five.”

Remembering the fiver in his pocket, Freddie bites his lip. He turns to look over his shoulder, admiring himself from the other side. He’s never seen himself like this before. For a moment, he feels like a child staring at a grown-up version of himself in a mirror, with a mixture of delight and accomplishment.   

“You have an eye for this sort of thing,” he says, and he means it, turning back to face the mirror.

“I know,” Roger says, quietly. He steps closer, until he’s just behind Freddie’s shoulder. Freddie’s eyes shift from his own face to Roger’s, whose pupils are huge in the dim light. He feels a warm pressure on his hips, and looks down in the glass to see Roger’s hands resting there. _Oh._

For a moment, he is tempted to lean into it. He knows what is expected of him in this moment: that he seize this chance to perform the act that dare not speak its name or stick so much as a toe out from behind the curtain, because he doesn’t know when it’ll come again. But something holds him back. The feeling that flooded him just now as he looked at himself lingers, suddenly making the curtain, the dim light, the need to hide, rather than the act itself, reprehensible to him. And, he quickly recognizes, it’s good old common sense, as well. Sleeping with the drummer is not the way he wants to get into the band.

He takes Roger’s hands away, gently, and turns around, creating a distance between them. Roger almost snatches his arms back and folds them again. He clears his throat. “Excuse me,” he says, and lifts the curtain to step out. Freddie takes one last look at himself in the mirror, before beginning to unbutton the shirt with a regretful sigh. _It was a good dream,_ he thinks. He can’t even afford the shirt, and now, Roger will surely show him the door. With hesitation, he pulls on his old top again, which feels coarse and ordinary on his skin, and pushes the curtain aside.

Roger is standing with his back to him, but he turns around when he hears the squeak of the curtain on the rail. His face is impassive, but his eyes are fierce.

“I’m sorry,” Freddie says. “I’m terribly flattered, but—”

“I understand.” Roger gives a half-shrug, moving his gaze to Freddie’s feet.

“Look here,” Freddie says after a pause, giving him an amiable smile, “you’re not _wrong._ I know I give off a—a vibe.” He realizes, with a tinge of pride, that he doesn’t feel ashamed when he says it. “And you’re very attractive. You’re just… not my type.”

Roger nods, once, and raises his eyes—his feathers seeming, Freddie notices, considerably less ruffled. _Why all these codes, this indirection?_ he thinks. _Why can’t we ever just come out and say what we feel, what we are?_

“I’m sorry,” he says again. He really doesn’t know what else to say. After a pause, Roger nods at the shirt, which Freddie still holds crumpled in his hand.

“Are you buying that?”

“Oh—no,” Freddie says. “I’m afraid I can’t afford it.” He holds it out to Roger, who takes it from him and looks down at it, studying the pattern. A few seconds pass, during which neither of them says anything.

Maybe Roger expects him to leave, but Freddie, seized by a renewed sense of confidence, thinks, _It’s now or never._ In a lighter voice, he asks, “Any word on your singer yet?”

Roger looks up, seemingly relieved to change the subject. “No, not yet. We’re thinking about putting up an advert, though.”

“I see.” Freddie rests his hand on a fringe suede jacket on the rack to his right. “What happened, anyway?”

“He just upped and left,” Roger replies, tonelessly. “Fucking left us for Humpy Bong.”

“What a twat,” says Freddie fervently. “Anyone can tell you guys have massive potential.”

“ _I_ think so,” Roger says. He shrugs. “We just need the right singer. It’s nice playing pubs and all, but I think we can do more.”

“Me, too,” Freddie agrees, and he thinks, _This is it._ He straightens up from his casual stance.

“You know, I’m something of a singer myself.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“What do you sing?”

“Everything.”

They stand looking at each other, and Freddie can sense Roger’s struggle: should he give in to his curiosity for the sake of the band, or preserve his pride by making sure the lover who rejected him stays out of his social circle? He examines the shirt he’s still holding, as if trying to determine its real value now that they’ve both witnessed its transformative powers. Eventually, he says,

“Tell you what. You can have the shirt for a fiver… and a song.”

“A song?”

“Yeah. Call it your audition,” Roger says. He’s smiling now, but he’s crossed his arms again, and Freddie sees a defiant glint in his eyes.

After all this, what does he have to lose? Freddie looks Roger in the eye as he clears his throat, and begins, “ _The moment I wake up / Before I put on my make-up…_ ” He pauses, but, seeing no change in Roger’s expression, continues: “ _I say a little prayer for you…_ ”

He takes a deep breath, then, tapping into the power reservoir at the bottom of his lungs, and continues: “ _I’m combing my hair now / And wonder what dress to wear now—”_

“— _I say a little prayer for you,_ ” Roger chimes in, taking him by surprise, and Freddie opens his eyes to see him wearing an impressed smile.

“That was bloomin’ great,” Roger says when Freddie finishes the chorus, a sense of awe in his voice.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Roger picks up the shirt and holds it out to him. “There. Sold for a song,” he says with a smile.

“And the fiver?” Freddie asks, taking the shirt from him. His heart feels as if it’s about to burst.

“Save it,” Roger tells him, and gets out a bag to put the shirt in. “You can buy me and Brian a pint at the Rose and Crown tonight.” Freddie grins.

“I will. Thanks!” He turns around to leave, but Roger catches him by the elbow.

“Erm—listen. About what happened just now—” He pauses. “I—”

Freddie takes his hand and shakes it. “Don’t be sorry,” he says. “I thought it was really bold of you. And fortune favours the bold, you know.” Roger’s expression of secret relief gives way to a puzzled smile, as if he’s not sure whether to laugh.

“If you say so. Oh—” He reaches for something, then drapes the blue scarf around Freddie’s neck. “Keep that, too. It suits you.”

“See you tonight,” Freddie says, and as he exits the stall he has to keep himself from skipping out of the building. He half expects the fresh air outside to lift the spell, but when he looks down, he is clutching the bag with the shirt firmly in his hand, and the wind blows the scarf against his cheek with a soft caress.

He knew it—Kensington Market never disappoints.


End file.
